


I paid for a goddamned kilt!

by Allthephils



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Blow Job, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn Without Plot, role play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:07:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21954121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allthephils/pseuds/Allthephils
Summary: Phil finally gets his kilt clad delivery man.Merry Christmas!
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 14
Kudos: 95





	I paid for a goddamned kilt!

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi at [@allthephils](http://allthephils.tumblr.com)
> 
> If you like the fic, please reblog it on Tumblr. You can do that[here](https://allthephils.tumblr.com/post/189861494120/i-paid-for-a-goddamned-kilt)
> 
> Thank you!

Phil is a practical man, and an introverted one, and one thing he has learned in his 32 years of life is that you can buy anything off the internet. Even a Christmas tree. This is the third year he’s ordered his tree this way and its third year he’s requested delivery by a very particular courier. All he wants is to open the door to a beautiful man with a gorgeous Nordman fir thrown over his shoulder. He imagined bulging biceps working hard to keep the tree supported. Maybe he’d get a peek at a strong thigh when he crouched to set the tree into its stand. So far though, he’s gotten no more than skinny jeans and a Santa hat. The view was still nice, to be fair, but it just wasn’t the same. 

He wasn’t expecting much this year, unwilling to get his hopes up just to have them dashed once again. Still, there’s always a chance, so Phil’s hair is pushed to the side in a super casual style that takes him twice as long as normal to achieve, and his holiday jumper is simple and dark in color. Everyone says it suits him. He thinks he looks pretty hot.

The little screen in the wall next to the door lights up when the bell rings. The tree takes up most of the screen but there’s a face looking up as well. It’s a good face, a pretty one, a hot one. Buzzing the door open, Phil stands by the door and tries to look chill. It occurs to him that staring at the delivery guy’s thighs is probably creepier than it had seemed in his head. He does his best to clear all the salacious thoughts from his head and he mostly succeeds. He is still Phil and his baseline is fairly high.

Even though he knows it's coming, the knock startles him from his thoughts. When he opens the door, it’s like a dream. The third time really must be a charm because standing in the doorway is the most beautiful man Phil has ever seen. He’s tall, at least as tall as Phil with gorgeous eyes and a perfect mouth stretch into a wide smile. One big hand is wrapped around the trunk of tree, keeping it perfectly balanced on one broad shoulder. 

Phil is speechless. He’s steps aside and watches the man walk past. Long legs extend beneath a green and black plaid kilt, complete with pin and sporran. Knee socks have never looked so sexy. They draw attention to the bare skin above, and he’s doing it, he’s staring at his thighs. They’re just so lovely, thick and strong and just a little hairy. He bends to align the trunk with the bowl of the stand and the muscles on the backs of those thighs tense as the kilt lifts slightly for a better view. Phil hears a sound escape his own throat, a very small, quiet squeak of a whimper and he’s mortified.

“Did you say something?” The man says, tightening the thumbscrews to secure the tree. He’s fully squatting now, knees up, ass pushing out. It’s a nice ass, a nice taut round ass.

“No,” Phil says, sounding pubescent. He clears his throat and puts on the deepest voice he can. “No, I didn’t. Need any help?”

“Nope,” he says, “You’re all set, just needs water.”

He stands and steps back to be sure the tree is straight and then turns to face Phil. His eyes twinkle, they really do, so deep and brown. He smiles again, briefly, but it drops away when his eyes wander lower. They move slowly, taking Phil in inch by inch down to his socked feet, and back again, pausing for a moment when they reach his crotch. 

“Well,” he says, if there’s nothing else I can do for you…”

He doesn’t look like a man about to leave. He’s leaning on the back of Phil’s sofa, ankles crossed, clearly in no hurry. He never does finish his sentence, just runs his hand through the back of his wavy hair and keeps his eyes on Phil. This is an opportunity and Phil is not going to let it pass him by. 

“I do have a question,” Phil asks, “is it true, what they say about kilts?”

The response is a quirked brow and the cutest little smirk. Phil’s not imagining the tension between them, that was definitely a flirt. 

“I mean, I’ve heard that, traditionally, a kilt is worn on it’s own, like without pants.”

“Oh you’ve heard that, huh?” He pulls himself up from where he’s leaning. “Hmm.” He’s moving toward Phil, sauntering, on display. 

Phil keeps their eyes locked as the guy gets closer. He holds his ground, unflinching, chest out, and chin up. He’s not posturing, he’s just turned on. It will only take a glance downward for that fact to become clear.

They’re face to face, a foot apart. Phil’s tips his head, leaning back at bit to get a look at the kilt. His eyes flit to rose colored lips and his own lips ache to lean in. 

“So are you a traditional man?”

Brown eyes lower and Phil’s eyes follow them to hem of the kilt. It’s moving, raising, inching up as the man bunches the fabric in his long fingers. Impulsively, Phil reaches forward and places a hand on the man’s exposed hip. He slides it back and around until he’s got a handful of luscious naked flesh. The man has no choice but to stumble forward into Phil, their lips colliding in a kiss that starts rough and messy but slows into something sensuous. They kiss like they’ve done it for years. It’s perfect, hot and wet but slow and teasing too.

There’s no way he doesn’t feel Phil erection, pressed as he is against him. He’s got an arm around Phil, holding him so tight, putting those biceps to better use. Phil’s free hand has found its way up the front of the man’s jumper. He could do this for hours, kissing and holding and touching skin, squeezing that plump ass in his hands. But that’s not the fantasy that played in his head three years ago when he checked the box requesting his tree be delivered by a _person in a kilt._

And so, he pulls away, just enough to get the arm around his waist to loosen its grip a bit. Looking down, he hopes to see an obscene tent in his favorite, plaid. Turns out, there’s nothing obvious happening, just a little change in the angle of the leather pouch hanging in front of what feels like a present now that Phil’s about to unwrap it. He kisses him a few times more, softly on the lips, then firmly on the throat. He pulls the collar of his black jumper aside and kisses the muscular curve where his shoulder meets his neck, dips his tongue into the dip of his collarbone. This earns him a gasp, a desperate huff, and quick stilted moan.

Phil can’t wait any more. He drops to his knees. 

His hands caress over the man’s calves, up the backs of his knees, continue until they grip his thighs under the kilt. Phil loves thick thighs. He spends some time dragging his fingertips up and down, feeling the places that give and the places where the muscles ripple. Sitting back on his heels, he dips his head under the hem of the kilt and kisses one meaty thigh. When he bites down, a hand is suddenly in his hair, gripping, but not pulling him away. A low _fuck_ reaches his ears, muffled by fabric. It’s the hottest sound. 

The inside of his thighs are soft against Phil’s lips. He has opened his legs some to make room and Phil bites and licks and kisses, finding his way in the dark, eyes closed because he can’t see anything under here anyway. His mouth travels higher and higher until his cheek brushes something warm and soft, an unmistakable musty fragrance awakening something in Phil that he loves. He opens his mouth and sucks the pliable skin, drawing the balls into his mouth one at a time with a gentle suck. His nose prods at the base of what can only be a very pretty dick. He licks, wondering when he’ll reach the tip, until he does. It’s wet and it tastes so good. It shouldn’t taste good, it’s bitter and sharp but god, it’s delicious. There’s some kinda chemistry here.

Phil’s mind has gone full primal, the only thought is more. More ass, more skin, more dick, more cum. He really wants to taste his cum. His tongue is dipping and tasting, into his slit, along his foreskin, pulled back tight. He swirls it dripping wet around the head and finally lets his lips go where they want to go, sinking down until he’s taken all he can.

It’s hot and stifling under the kilt. The heavy wool tartan hangs over Phil’s head, making it hard to breathe and adding a layer of weight to his head as it bobs. Ask him later if it was worth it and he’ll say yes, absolutely yes. 

His mouth is loose and wet. This is just for him, he loves the feel of a dick on his tongue, the slide of his lips as they bump over the head. And now it’s nice and wet so he can reach up, under the kilt and stroke while he sucks. A burst of cool hits Phil’s neck as the kilt flies up. He can only assume he’s being watched. Tipping his head to allow for a better view, he drags his tongue up the side, just for show before covering the tip with his mouth and getting to work. His jaw aches, his cock is throbbing, neglected in his jeans, and from above, heavy shaking breaths tell him not to stop. Just a little more. There’s a light rock in the man’s hips and Phil hums. He stops moving, mouth still open on the head, lips tight. He’s settled back on his heels, head back and he’s just still. It takes a moment but soon he feels him move, fucking Phil’s mouth in quick shallow thrusts. A minute later, those lovely wide hips stutter and he cums onto Phil’s tongue. He holds it there for just a moment before swallowing, eyes closed, licking his lips just in case.

He doesn’t get up or open his eyes. He needs a minute to take it all in, to revel in it.

“Fuck Phil.” 

Finally, Phil looks up. The kilt has fallen back down. It’s almost like nothing happened, except the face looking down at him looks totally blissed out. 

“Still think it’s a dumb idea?” Phil asks.

“Nope. Not dumb. Such a good idea.” He reaches down to help Phil up, kisses his cheek and rests his head on Phil’s shoulder. “You’re very smart and I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”

Phil laughs. “Thanks for humoring me,” he says, “you look hot in that kilt. Let’s go bed and you can return the favor.”

“Kay,” Dan says, dazed. He pulls off his jumper and steps out of his shoes before heading toward their bedroom.

Phil watches Dan walk away for just a second. “And don’t you dare take off that kilt.”

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
